Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [52]
“Roileé may have lost a step or two, but she still has her bark, and she can still bite. I haven’t lost a lamb to a predator in twelve years.”
The swordsman grunted. “Hoy, it just goes to show. Appearances can be deceiving for people. I guess it can be the same for dogs.” He scrunched deeper into the obliging back of the chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to drink? We’ve been a long time walking with nothing but water to sustain us.”
“Of course, of course!” For the second time Coubert looked startled. “My manners—I am getting old.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, and not as far off as before. The storm was definitely moving in the direction of the solidly built little cottage.
From an ice-chilled cabinet their elderly host brought out wine, and from a chest small metal goblets. Simna was disappointed in the limited capacity of the drinking utensils, but relaxed after their host set the bottle on the table and did not comment when refills were poured.
“You must tell me.” Coubert had taken a seat on the hearth just to the left of the fire. “What are the sheep like in your country? Are they the same as mine, or very different?”
Emitting a soft moan of despair, Simna poured himself a third glass of the excellent spirits and tried to shutter his ears as well as his mouth. Ehomba took up the question energetically, and the two men embarked on a discussion of sheep and sheep-raising, with an occasional aside to accommodate the dissimilar nature of cattle, that required the addition of several logs to the fire. Despite the steady cannonade of approaching heavy weather, Ahlitah was already submerged deep in cat sleep. With his abnormally long legs fully extended to front and rear, his paws nearly touched opposite walls of the cottage. With the assistance of more wine, Simna ibn Sind soon followed the imposing feline into similar latitudes of slumber.
Coubert’s hospitality extended to his offering his guest the only bed. Ehomba would not hear of it.
“Besides,” he told the oldster, “it has been my experience that the beds of more civilized people are too soft for me, and I would probably not sleep well in it. Better for me to remain here with my friends.” He pushed down on the cushion that was supporting him. “If this couch is also too soft, I assure you I will be very comfortable here on the floor, beside your excellent fire.” He glanced significantly upwards. “I think that tonight a strong roof will be the most important aid to sleep.”
“I think you’re right, my friend.” With a kindly smile, their host tapped the bowl of his pipe against the stone mantel, knocking the contents into the fireplace. “Actually, it’s been pretty dry hereabouts lately. We could use a good rain.” Thunder echoed through the surrounding vales in counterpoint to his comment. “From the sound of it, we’re about to have some. I hope you sleep well, Etjole.”
“Thank you, Lamidy.”
After the old man had retired to the room behind the kitchen, closing the door gently behind him, Ehomba struggled to negotiate with the couch for reconciliation of his long frame. It took some twisting and turning, and his legs still dangled off the far end, but the final position he settled on was not an impossible one, and he felt he would be able to sleep. The soothing fire was a great help, and the profundo purring of the black litah a suitable if not entirely exact substitution for the soothing susurration of the small waves that curled and broke rhythmically on the shore beneath the village.
He awoke to the peal of thunder and the flash of lightning. It revealed a world transformed into brief glimpses of stark black and white. Color returned only when the shocked purple faded from his sight, allowing him to see once again by the light of the dying fire. Ahlitah now reposed on his back with all four legs in the air, his massive skull lolling to one side, leaving him looking for all the world like a contented, spoiled tabby. That was